


When the Past Comes Back To Haunt You

by 852_Prospect_Archivist



Category: The Sentinel
Genre: Drama, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-10
Updated: 2013-05-10
Packaged: 2017-12-11 00:00:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,855
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/791684
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/852_Prospect_Archivist/pseuds/852_Prospect_Archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An old enemy of Simon's comes after him</p>
            </blockquote>





	When the Past Comes Back To Haunt You

**Author's Note:**

> Originally published in Sinful Simon

## When the Past Comes Back To Haunt You

by Lianne

Author's webpage: <http://www.squidge.org/~lianne>

Author's disclaimer: Not mine. Drat

* * *

* * *

When the Past Comes Back To Haunt You  
by Lianne Burwell

* * *

Simon stood on his tip-toes, trying to flex his arms. His hands were cuffed, high above his head. High enough that he could barely balance on the balls of his feet. There was cold concrete under his feet. He could feel the cold leeching up through his dress shoes. A opaque covering over his eyes left him completely blind. He focused on his hearing, wishing for once that he had the enhanced senses of his best detective. 

Hell, at the moment he'd rather have Jim Ellison _there_. 

The room sounded... large. When he rattled the cuffs, the sound of metal chinking echoed off of distant walls. He also got the impression of a high ceiling. That, combined with the draft, said warehouse to him. 

Okay. He now had a clue of 'where'. Now, 'how'? Go over the events, Simon. You were a detective long before you were a captain. 

He'd been working late. Budget time. God, he hated budget time. It generated more paperwork than any man should have to deal with, and he didn't even have to face the worst of it. Paperwork had to be the worst thing about making captain. He'd finally called it a night at ten. When he'd gotten to the parking garage it was nearly empty - no one around. He'd just reached his car when a voice had called his name. He'd turned, heard a hissing noise. Then everything went black. Some sort of anesthetic gas. 

The voice had sounded familiar - like he knew the person, but they were disguising their voice. So 'who' was probably someone he knew. And if he could figure out 'who', he might know 'why'. 

He shifted his weight again, trying to ease the strain on his arms, and set himself to wait. 

* * *

When Jim Ellison arrived at the station in the morning, he was surprised to see Simon's car still parked in the same spot. Simon had still been in his office when he and Blair had left the night before, and he'd told Jim he'd probably be in late in the morning. But there his car was, and it didn't look like it had moved at all. He headed for it. 

"Jim? What's up?" 

He waved his partner back. Blair took note of the look of concentration, and kept quiet. He stayed back, but close enough to help Jim if he needed help with his senses. 

When he reached the car, Jim stopped. His nose wrinkled. 

"What?" 

"Anesthetic gas. A fast acting type used to subdue violent perps. Police and army use only. It's recent, too." He glanced around, then bent and reached under the car. When he pulled back his hand, there was a set of keys in it. Simon's keys. 

"Let's get going, Chief. We need to get forensics down here. Simon's been taken." 

* * *

Simon was dozing, as best he could in his position, when he hear a door open and close. Instantly he was awake and alert. Footsteps rang from the concrete, coming closer and closer. He turned his head, trying to figure out the direction. The echoes defeated him. 

The footsteps stopped in front of him. He could almost feel the heat radiating from the other person. Between the time spent hanging in the warehouse, and the tang of fear, Simon was shivering. All he could hear now was breathing - both his and the other person's. He waited. 

"Hello, Banks. It's been a while." 

Simon stiffened. It was a voice he hadn't expected to ever hear again. "Michael Jefford. What are you doing here?" 

"Hey, it's been a long time. Crooks get released from jail every day, you know. Even crooks who were cops. Even cops who were sent to jail for being on the take to drug lords. Even cops sent to jail by their partners." The voice was quiet, but it dripped with venom. Simon couldn't help the slight shudder that ran through his body. 

"Oh yes, partner. I was a model prisoner. Early parole. All I had to do was... wait. And now that I am _completely_ reformed, I thought I'd look up my _dear_ old friend, Simon Banks. Friend. Partner. Betrayer." He paused, then spat. "Lover." 

* * *

Simon had been a rookie, fresh out of the academy, when he joined the Seattle police department. He had been thrilled to be assigned to a proper beat, rather than the usual parking ticket duty that many rookies get, but then he _had_ been the top of his class. When he reported for duty, on his first day, he'd been introduced to his partner, Mike Jefford, a veteran on the force. The older man had looked him up and down, then seemed to pigeon-hole him at once. He'd bristled, and anticipated proving himself to the other man. 

It hadn't quite worked out the way he'd expected, though. At the end of the first day, Jefford had suggested going out for a drink - to get to know each other better, he had said. Simon still wasn't sure how he had ended up, later that night, in Jefford's bed, flat on his back with his legs over the other man's shoulders, on the receiving end of the most intense sexual experience of his life. The man was six inches shorter than him, proportionally lighter, with a middle-aged paunch starting, but not submitting had never been an option. 

After that, the pattern was set. During the day, they worked the streets together. Jefford was smart and savvy, the perfect teacher for a rookie who was still a little naive. In the evenings, they went their separate ways. But, every so often, Jefford would give him a look, while they were changing in the precinct locker room, and Simon would know to cancel any plans he might have. It never even occurred to him to say no, not even once. 

It was just sex. No relationship. They would go back to Jefford's apartment \- never anywhere else - and he would fuck Simon. It never went the other way. Sometimes it would just be once in the evening. Sometime several times. Then Simon would dress and go home. He was never invited to stay the night. It was like Jefford was scratching an itch. They never spoke of it. 

Sometimes, late at night in his own bed, Simon wondered about it. What was in it for Jefford? Did he get off on dominating his partner? Did he just want to make a point to Simon about his relative position in the partnership? Or did he just want sex? 

And why did Simon put up with it? 

* * *

"The security cameras caught it on tape. Here we go." 

There was a tight cluster around the monitor. Jim and Blair had been joined by several other detectives in Major Crimes, include Rafe and Brown. Joel Taggert, the bomb squad captain, was also there, with a look of worry plastered across his usually cheerful face. Everyone looked worried. 

The video rolled. Simon's car was right at the edge of the screen. They watched as Simon walked up to it, keys in hand. He stopped, then turned. A small gas canister rolled to a stop at his feet. He collapsed. 

Then a van came into the picture. A man, his back to the camera, got out and pulled Simon around to the back. It obviously took a lot of effort, since Simon was _not_ a small man. The back doors of the van were opened, and Simon was man-handled inside. Then the man closed and locked the van's doors, got into the driver's seat, and drove away. 

"No joy on the face," Brown said. 

"I've got the license plate number," Rafe said. "I'll start a search on it." 

Jim nodded. "I'll check Simon's old case files, and the current ones. Revenge could be a motive here." 

Blair looked at Taggert, concerned. "Joel, he was taken alive. That usually means that killing him isn't a priority, right? He'll be found." 

"Yeah, he'll be okay." Taggert sounded more like he was praying, than making a statement. 

* * *

A few months after joining the Seattle police department, Simon had started to notice a pattern in his partner's behavior. A ready availability of money. Periodic disappearances while they were on duty. Brief glimpses of him with people that a cop shouldn't be seeing unless he had an arrest warrant in hand. Half-heard phone conversations. It had started to add up to one thing: a dirty cop. 

Simon had started following Jefford during his off-duty hours. It had taken every skill he'd ever been taught to keep from being seen. Over the course of weeks, he'd documented a variety of meetings with upper levels of the Cortez drug cartel. Once he'd accumulated enough evidence, he'd done the most difficult thing he'd ever done in his life. 

He went to Internal Affairs. 

Six months after he'd graduated from the police academy, he had helped convict his partner of drug possession, taking bribes and, it turned out, murder. Thankfully, their... relationship had not been exposed. 

That had been the start of three months of hell. Even though Jefford had been as crooked as hell, Simon was blamed for everything. He had turned on his partner, the ultimate betrayal. There were threatening notes in his locker. Spray pain on his car. It had finally come to a head when he was hospitalized after being beaten by three men he couldn't identify. 

His Captain hated to lose a promising cop, but it was increasingly obvious that, the way things were going, Simon was going to end up dead if he stayed in Seattle. A phone call to an old friend, and Simon found himself offered a position with the Cascade, Washington police force. 

He took it, gratefully. 

A year after graduating from the police academy, he was starting over in a new town, with a clean slate. The naive young man that he had been was gone. A few months later, he met an ambitious young beauty named Joan, and he put the last of his time in Seattle behind him. 

But sometimes the past has a way of catching up with you. 

* * *

Rafe picked up the phone and listened for a minute. He hung up and turned to face the others. 

"The van is a rental. The company rented it to a Michael Stapely. The address given was a fake, so it's probably not his real name. The rental company will call if he tries to return the van. In the meantime, there is an APB out on the van and this Stapely character's description." 

Jim turned and headed for the door, Blair right behind him. "I'm going to see if forensics has come up with anything." 

* * *

"You did a pretty good job of ruining my life, Simon, my lad. Yet look at you. A police Captain. A handsome son. A shelf full of awards. The respect of your people. All of which, I suppose, could be attributed to _me_. After all, if not for me you wouldn't even be here." 

Simon snorted, refusing to let Jefford see how nervous he was. "Bullshit, Mike. I _earned_ all of those things by being a good cop. A _clean_ cop." 

Jefford was pacing in circles around him. Every so often, a hand would reach out to touch Simon. A caress across the neck. A rub at the chest. A brush up the undersides of his arms. A touch on the buttocks. A grope of the genitals. Simon was sweating steadily, now, but he refused to flinch. 

"What do you want, Mike? They're going to be coming soon. My people are _very_ good at their jobs." 

"Oh, I'm sure that they are. Don't worry, Simon. I'm not going to kill you. At least... not yet. No. I've got something else in mind." The calm voice suddenly became a hiss, dripping with anger. "I'm going to _humiliate_ you. I'm going to make sure that you think of me every day for the rest of your life, no matter how long that might be. Your people will look at you and remember me, and what you did to me." 

Simon couldn't stop the flinch at the sound of a switchblade being opened. He jerked as a hand pulled at his sweater, but there was nowhere to go. In short order, his clothes had been cut away or otherwise removed, and Simon's teeth were chattering in the cold, damp air. 

At least, he told himself it was the cold. 

* * *

Forensics had been scouring the parking garage, looking for clues, but they considered it to be hopeless. Too many cars, from too many areas of town, passed through the garage around the clock. They carefully ignored Detective Ellison and his partner. The two had a reputation for being careless at crime scenes, but they also had a reputation, though, for finding clues that the best forensics experts had overlooked. 

Jim was crouched in the spot where the security cameras said that the van had stopped. There was a gleam of oil on the pavement, with faint tire tracks in it. Forensics had photographed the tracks in the hopes of matching them to the van. Samples of the oil had been taken for analysis, but that would take a while. 

Jim rubbed his finger across the nearly-dry oil, then brought his finger to his nose and sniffed. 

"All right, Jim," came the quiet voice of his Guide. "Filter out the background odors and concentrate. If it's motor oil, maybe we can identify what kind." 

Jim frowned. "It's not motor oil. It smells like... fish?" 

"How old?" 

"Fresh. Less than a day, at least." 

"So. That would mean what? The docks?" 

"It's worth a try. Call Rafe and Brown. Tell them we're headed for the waterfront. The warehouse district would be our best bet, I think." 

* * *

"Now there's a sight to see. You certainly haven't let yourself go, even stuck behind a desk." 

Simon held himself completely still, as Jefford used the tip of the knife to trace the same path he had followed with his hands, before. He didn't press hard enough to break the skin, but the trail of scratches burnt. 

"And what about this? Has this missed me?" 

The length of the blade pressed between Simon's ass cheeks, lightly brushing against his anus. Before he could stop himself, Simon tensed. The flexing of his ass muscles grabbed the knife, pulling it in tight enough to cut in, slightly. Jefford chuckled. He pulled the knife away, and ran his fingers through the thin line of blood, spreading it around. He moved back around to stand in front of Simon. 

"Such a pity that we don't have time. But, like you said, your people _are_ good. I've seen their records. That means, unfortunately, that I don't have time to show you, again, who's in charge. Instead, I'll settle for a leaving you with a momento. Something for you to look at every day." 

Suddenly, the knife bit deeply, and Simon screamed. It seemed to go on forever, the knife moving, cutting. 

Then it was gone, and the footsteps faded away. He slumped against the cuffs, barely conscious, and felt the blood drip. 

* * *

Once they reached the docks, Jim slowed the truck down and rolled down the windows. Blair wrinkled his nose at the variety of odors that filled the air, but concentrated on keeping Jim grounded and focused. 

They'd been driving for nearly half an hour, when Jim hit the breaks, automatically reaching out to brace Blair. 

"What is it? You smell the right kind of oil?" 

"No... blood." 

At that moment, a van came around the corner, swerved around them and headed away at top speed. 

"Shit! That's the van! Do we go after it?" 

Jim frowned. "No. Call it in. I'm still smelling blood, and it wasn't coming from the van." 

While Blair pulled out his cell phone and hit the memory button for the Major Crimes bullpen, Jim got out of the car and focused on the blood scent. He piggy-backed his hearing, following the scent. He could hear Simon's heartbeat -- or what he hoped was Simon's heartbeat -- but it was slow. 

Blair moved back to his side. He waved him along as he headed down the row of warehouses, following his hearing and the blood scent. He stopped outside a boarded up warehouse. 

"Here." He focused on his hearing. The heartbeat was still there, but it was weakening. "Tell them to send an ambulance, and to make it fast." 

He looked for an entrance, and found a side door that hadn't been sealed. He opened the door and moved into the dim room. Behind him, Blair choked. 

In the center of the room, suspended from a pulley, was Simon. There was a blindfold over his eyes, but it was the only thing he was wearing. His clothes littered the floor. Blood ran down his chest, and a small puddle was starting to form at his feet. 

"Get the blanket and first aid kit from the truck, Chief." 

While Blair ran back to the truck, Jim looked around until he found the controls for the pulley. Finding them, he lowered his captain to the floor, slowly. Simon was unconscious, and collapsed into a heap on the ground. Jim checked the cuffs and, finding them to be standard issue police cuffs, used his own key to unlock them. As Blair returned, he could hear the sounds of sirens in the distance. 

They carefully wrapped him in the blanket and worked to slow the bleeding , while waiting for the paramedics to arrive. 

* * *

Simon was a little surprised to find himself waking up. He shifted a little, then groaned as pain shot through his chest. There were voices in the room, but they all stopped as soon as he moved. He opened his eyes to find what looked to him like half the police department in his hospital room. 

"What..." he started to croak. Sandburg was instantly by his side with a glass of water with a straw in it. He sucked at the straw gratefully, then tried again. "What happened?" 

"We were kinda hoping you could tell us, Captain," Rafe piped up. "You disappear from the department parking garage, and Ellison follows clues to the warehouse district at the docks. He and Blair find you hanging from a hook with the letters 'MJ' carved in your chest." Simon brushed his fingers across his chest, finding it covered in bandages. 

"Simon," Jim said. "Do you know who kidnapped you? Or why?" 

Simon closed his eyes. "Michael Jefford. He was a cop in Seattle. He was also an... enforcer for the Cortez drug cartel. I sent him to jail. He got early parole, somehow. Came looking for revenge." He frowned. "He carved his initials on my chest?" 

"Don't worry. The doc says they'll be able to get rid of most of the scarring. Certainly enough so that no one will be able to tell _what_ the scars are." 

"He said... he wanted to leave me with a momento. Something for me to look at every day." 

The drugs were starting to take him away again. He did hear Jim's last words, though. 

"There's a guard outside your door. You're safe here. Just sleep." 

So he did. 

* * *

Simon was sitting on the bed, pulling on his shoes. Thanks to a slight infection, the doctors had kept him in the hospital longer than he would have liked, but he was finally getting out. The room seemed very empty, now that a stream of cops had passed through the room, collecting the flowers, cards and gifts to take down to his car. 

There was a sound at the door, and he looked up to see Jim, Blair and Joel waiting there with an orderly and a wheelchair. He grimaced, but knew better than to protest hospital policy. 

"Jefford?" he asked. Jim answered him. 

"Still no sign. The van was ditched near the bus station, but no one can remember if he bought a ticket there. He's long gone, and the trail is too cold, even for me." 

Simon snorted. "No matter what you might think, Jim, you're not the ultimate bloodhound. Let it go. I don't think he's coming back. He made his point." 

He walked over and climbed into the wheelchair, though he'd prefer to walk out of the hospital on his own two feet. He looked up into Joel's smiling face. 

"Ready to get out of here?" 

"Yeah, let's go. I want to sleep in my own bed, tonight." 

* * *

Of course there was a party waiting for him at his house. Even Daryl was there, though Simon was sure that Joan had only given permission grudgingly. Probably Blair had talked her into it. He and Daryl got along great together, and Simon had yet to meet anyone who could say no to the kid. You would never get him to admit it, but he was glad that Blair and his son were friends. Blair was a good example for Daryl, scholastically at least. 

Just about everyone in his department was there, not to mention a large number of people from support and other areas of the police department. Ellison was manning the barbecue, while Sandburg organized the salads and deserts that people had brought with them. The music was loud, but hopefully not loud enough to make the neighbors call the police, since it looked like most of the police force was at the party. 

Simon was still moving a little gingerly, but he made sure that he talked to everyone who came out. These were his people. These were his friends. 

His family. 

* * *

Later that night, Simon woke with a shock. It took him a moment to remember where he was. He got to his feet and went into the bathroom. After turning the lights, he relieved himself, then turned to the mirror. 

His chest still looked bruised. Watching himself in the mirror, he reached up to trace the pattern carved there. The doctors promised that they had managed to prevent a lot of the scarring, but not all of it. Every day, when he looked in the mirror, he would see the scars. Just like Mike had promised. 

"Are you coming back to bed, or are you going to spend all night admiring your manly physique?" came the sleepy call from the bedroom. 

Simon grinned, then flicked off the light switch. It didn't really matter, after all. Mike just never learned how important personal connections were. He thought that his mark would damage Simon, but his friends weren't going to let that happen. His family wasn't going to let that happen. His _lover_ wasn't going to let that happen. 

He climbed back into bed and curled up against the warm bulk waiting for him there. When he fell asleep, his dreams were clean and happy. 

The past wasn't going to haunt him. 

**END**


End file.
